Little Ghost Song
by Moa in the Moon
Summary: Inspired by the Nick Cave song of the same title- the story is darker, pointedly gothic, meant as an isolation SanSan piece.
1. Wild Heather

Wild Heather

It was wild heather and tall yellow grass as far as the eye could see-the sky was a sweeping grey, low clouds hung in the sky like wet linens. Craggy rocks jutted out from the ground, surrounded by a thick and low lying fog. The entire world was horizon. The wind blew hard, as though the air was a wild beast. The Westerlands seemed strangely lonesome, not at all what she had expected. The gold that lay the in the ground covered by this stretch of moorland seemed inconsequential. The only things real were the sky that seemed to stretch on forever, the sad lowlands and the occasional grouse that would fly up from some distant bog.

Sansa clutched at the reins of her pony, her hands in delicate fox skin gloves, her hair wrapped in a scarf. She'd been told not to give the appearance of a Tully and to hide her hair at all times, masking her identity. She'd spent the last month riding side saddle at an impossible pace, sleeping in flea bitten inns while being shuttled off into the heart of Lannister territory. It was as though the earth itself were a Lannisterócold and conniving and yellow. Tears ran down her face as she rodeóthe wind made it impossible to keep dry-eyed, her nose running constantly. She knew that she must look a mess, but it was impossible for her to care.

Everything had gone wrong, but she only really had herself to blame.

Another tear streamed down her face, the wind lashing at her cheeksóthe early dawn's mist cutting a trail around her as she rode.

The Keep was situated at the bottom of the moor. It was an unkind looking stone structure with high roofs that ended with razor precision. Sansa's heart sank when she saw itóafter a month on a rough road she'd hoped that at least seeing it would have given her some relief, but there was none. The house had the look of bones gnawed clean by some wild animal-the yellow grass grew thick, interspersed with bracken and thorny bushes that were barren of leaves. She arrived in the courtyard on the back of her pale horse, and was soon abandoned by her guards. She'd been couriered from King's Landing with a few old and tired members of the City Watch. She was grateful for themóthey'd not been kind, but they hadn't been too rough with her. They mostly treated her like a parasite and were glad to get her to the gates of the Keep. One of the guards quickly dismounted his horse and pulled her things off of the cart that his horse had been carrying for the last month, tossing them unceremoniously onto the ground before mounting his destrier in a hurry. The guards shuffled off as soon as she reached the inner yard, abandoning her to her fate.

For the last month all she knew was that she was being married off to family which was loyal to the Lannister's. She felt as though she were being led off to her death, all hope had escaped like a thief in the night.

The guards had not even assisted her down off of her horse before they'd turn and fled. They were afraid of who was insideóthe man that lived within the walls. Sansa's own heart was leaping into her throat. Being abandoned did nothing to make her feel any better about her situation than she had before. A few hot tears escaped her eyes, falling onto her collar bone in a murky little puddle. These tears weren't inspired by the brutal wind, but by the black sadness that loomed in her like a shadow. As the tears fell she thought of her Lady Mother, and prayed that she'd done the right thing.

* * *

Sandor Clegane cast a shadow across the room. The mid-morning sun streamed in through a high window, illuminating dust particles in the air. His head hurt from having drank too much wine the night beforeóand the night before that, and each night that preceded it. He stood still, drinking in the air like it was some tonic. He was gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, his stomach feeling like it was full of sloshing vinegar. He'd only gotten word from a Raven a few days ago-his beloved King was sending him a wife. Another gift from King Joffrey, one which he could have done without. After Blackwater Bay had swung on the side of the little Lion, all order had gone to hell. The Tyrell's had insisted on replacing the King's Guard with an array of their own flowers, and all of the old order were rewarded with Houses and KeepsóSandor had been given his family home to tend. His brother had died some awful death in the Riverlands, and now he was stuck with his ghost and memories that he couldn't suppress, no matter how much wine he'd indulged in.

And now he was being sent a wife to contend with. The note that the Raven had brought with it didn't even mention a name, much less a description of the poor woman who'd been forced to twine her life to his. He could only imagine the poor bitch that had been given to himóprobably some whore who had some debt with the Littlefinger. He was imagining some fat beast with foul breath and an unkind sneer who would hate him upon first glance. Even if she wasn't a beast, any woman would look upon him and recoil in horror. His face was ruined, his flesh burnt clear across half of his visage. He was too tall and thick, his arms were like battering rams and his hands were calloused with fists as hard as iron. There wasn't a thing about him which was tender or kindly. He'd make the worst husband possible.

Hopefully the poor wench will run when she sees me. I won't try to fucking catch her.

He gripped his face violently while he paced the floor. The note still lay on a hard stone where he'd thrown it a few days before. He'd come to a house that had in its employ only a fat old kitchen maid and a useless and elderly Septon. The small folk wouldn't send any of their own to keep house for a Clegane-too many sons and daughters had disappeared under Gregor, and he was too exhausted of this life to force them into their fealty. His squire had stayed behind in King's Landing, waiting to be summoned back. The solitude had relieved him once, but now it wore on his mind. Perhaps a wife would at least break up the monotony of the days which bled into each other, a sad string of tiresome hours. He strode to his usual chair and threw his weight into it. The brazier which he had dreaded so much as a child was broken in pieces across the ground. He'd destroyed it, but hadn't done away with it completely. He closed his eyes and fell asleep, his head still ringing with wine.

* * *

"Gods be good, child! You scared the heavens out of me!" The old kitchen maid cried out when she saw Sansa sitting on her pony, looking quite confused. She was hobbling across the yard, carrying a load of turnips in a worn wicker basket.

"Oh, dear me, I must apologize. I didn't mean to frighten anyone. I was brought here by the guards at King's Landing. I'm to marry the Lord of the Keep. They left me here and I didn't know what to do." Sansa replied, her voice soft and shaking.

"Well dear, climb off of that pony and tie it to a rail. His Lordship's been expecting you! He's asleep at the moment, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind if I took you into your room without waking him. His Lordship has an awful temper, I must warn you child. It would be best if you didn't bother him much. We'll get you in and he'll come out for your trunks when he wakes."

Sansa nodded and dismounted as daintily as she could. She led her pony to a wall and tied her up. She gently stroked her mane, making sure her own cloak was still secure around her head and then hurried off with the old wench. She carried a small bag which she held only a change of clothing in and a few things with which she could freshen herself up with after the day's ride. Sansa had to walk quickly to keep up with the old woman, who moved quite swiftly for a woman of her stature and hobble. Sansa considered asking her who the Lord of the Keep was, but figured that would be unladylike of her. A lady should keep her mouth closed and not go out of her way to appear ignorant, her old Septa would always remind her. Sansa's feet crunched over gravel and yellow grass as she walked. Perhaps even if there were some of the wild heather in the yard her heart wouldn't feel so heavy. Something beautiful to make this place less dreary and loathesome.

The old maid led her into the service door, through the kitchen and up a winding stairwell that was dark and damp so as to avoid waking the Lord of the Keep. Sansa looked for clues about her to indicate where she wasóshe saw no sigil or colors hung upon the walls, not a single sign to point her to the direction of the identity of her soon-to-be husband. She sighed audibly loud when the old maid opened the door to a room and announced that it was to be her quarters. The room was nothing but a narrow wooden bed outfitted with ancient quilts and a sooty fire pit in the corner. There was a small wooden table with a pitcher of water and a bowl that she could use as a toilette.

"Are you sure this is where I am intended to stay?" Sansa spit out, regretful as soon as she did.

"Oh yes, m'Lady. I'm sure this is where his Lordship'll want to keep you. Ain't no other room in the house which has a real bed. All the other ones just got a straw mat on the floor. You'll get used to it somehow. Cheer up."

"I didn't mean to be rude." Sansa stammered, starring at her feet.

The old maid put a filthy, arthritic had against Sansa's cheeks.

"M'lady, I'm sure you're frightened. You ain't rude, you're just scarred. M'name is Missy Pratter. If you ever need me I'm just down below in the kitchen. Now go and rest. When his Lordship wakes he's liable to be a beast." She replied, lowering her hand to squeeze Sansa's. She turned and waddled off down the hall, before disappearing around the corner, leaving Sansa alone once again.

Sansa closed the door behind her and began to sob-her entire body shaking. She ran to the bed and threw herself upon it, the tears coming hard and fast. She'd never felt so alone and so scared before. There was nothing to save her, and all hope was lost.


	2. Howling Rain

2. Howling Rain

Darkness was knitting itself together outside of the keep; thick, rain burdened clouds were approaching, the wind picking up. Drafts ran lengthwise though the keep, cold air swirling about the chambers. Missy Pratter attended to her duties, looking mournfully about the Keep. Nothing was as it should be; old soot crawled up the exposed walls, relics of fires that the previous Lord would burn throughout the house without regard for fire pits. Where tapestries once hung, meager threads clung to the rafters. The house had the feel of death and decay. When Lord Clegane arrived he'd had to go throughout the Keep and remove the bones of Gregor's dead-wives, bastards, servants. He'd left the bodies about, had forbidden any man or woman from removing them. They'd made the house smell foul, and the stench hadn't yet totally lifted.

There was no more furniture-the Late Lord had broken every last shred of it. He seemed to be a madman, incapable of kindness or sleep. He'd always complain of a torturous headache that refused to leave him be. The Maester was murdered for failing to offer a lasting solution to his troubles.

The ancient maid knelt before the present Lord Clegane and built a fire in the pit, worrying about the storm that was building outside. She'd have to wake and feed Sandor before the rain began to fall.

"Best be waking yourself, Lord Clegane." Missy Pratter insisted, setting down a heavy tray of food before Sandor's feet. He'd begun refusing to take meals unless she brought them to him, so deep was the well of despair that he seemed to have been swallowed by. His entire day was spent before the fire pit, which he wouldn't tend to. Missy Pratter, alone in the Keep without companion or assistant was forced to care for him like a nurse maid, providing him his meals, making a fire to keep him warm.

Sandor opened his eyes reluctantly, waving her away.

"I won't be eating. I'm not hungry. Bring me my wine skins and disappear, wench." He growled at her, backing his chair away from the growing fire in the pit.

"M'Lord, you must eat something. It ain't good for a man your size not to eat. You're wasting away. B'sides, I've got a bit o' good news for ya', if you'd be caring to hear it."

"Seven hells, wench! Bugger off."

Missy Pratter shook her head, apparently undisturbed by the Hound's outbursts. She'd tended to his brother the Late Lord Gregor before his death and was unafraid of Clegane vitriol. She herself could be capable of her own viciousness-a side effect of keeping such close company with cruel men. Tonight, though, she was in good cheer despite the dismal conditions of the Keep. The arthritis that plagued her seemed less horrid today, her eyes weren't having trouble focusing, and the arrival of the young Lady seemed to brighten her mood.

"Your soon-to-be-Lady-Wife arrived this afternoon, M'Lord."

Sandor grunted, bending to pick up the tray and set it across his lap. Despite his disgust, the smell of mutton stew made eating at least seem palatable.

"And what of this poor beast?"

"No, M'Lord-she ain't no beast. She's a pretty young thing, with a pleasing face and a good countenance. Judging by her graces I'd be saying she ain't small folk, neither. It seems to me that she's a Lady through and through."

Sandor snorted this time, chuckling in a mean way.

"A Lady? Sent here? You wouldn't even know what a Lady's manners were, wench."

"I would be knowing what a Lady's manners were, M'Lord-they're the opposite of your manners, I'd reckon."

"Why didn't you wake me up, then, if she arrived? Where the fuck were her escorts?" He replied, ignoring her brazen retort.

"They rode away swiftly, I'd say. She was all alone in the courtyard when I found her. Still haven't brought in her trunks. I figured you could when you woke up. I put her in the room you said she could have. Still haven't fed her, I was hoping that I could invite her down to take supper with you-if that is to your liking, M'Lord."

Sandor dropped his fork, and shoved the tray off of his lap abruptly, sending his dinner onto the floor.

"You'll invite her nowhere near me!" He bellowed, standing quickly, kicking the bowl away from him. "Speak again about this Lady and live to regret it. I shall bring her trunks to her door soon. See that she doesn't meet me in the hall. I won't have some Lady's eyes mocking me in my own Keep."

Sandor growled, turning on his heels and dashing away. The low rumble of a thunderstorm built in the distance, cracking as he disappeared into the darkness.

0

Missy Pratter knocked gently on Sansa's door, carrying another tray against her ample hips. Sansa opened the door timidly, revealing a room that was darkened through and through.

"I've brought you dinner, M'Lady." She said quietly. "I managed to find you some candles, too. This place is a cheerless as a tomb, I'm afraid to say."

"I cannot thank you enough." Sansa whispered, ushering the old woman into her room.

"Close the door behind you, child." She said in a warning voice. "The Lord is in a foul mood tonight. He's bringing up your things, you wouldn't want to risk running into him."

"No, ma'am."

"I ain't no ma'am. Just call me Missy." She said in a smiling voice. Sansa giggled for a moment.

"You find me funny, child?"

"No, ma'am-I mean, Missy. You just remind me of someone that I once knew."

"You're a funny one."

Missy Pratter set out Sansa's meal and began scurrying about the room, lighting candles here and there. She went to the fire pit and began tending it, nursing a small flame to life in the cinders. The room was chilly, like the lair of a ghost.

"I must warn you girl, Lord Clegane ain't a kind man. He ain't pleased that he has been given a wife." She said, standing and beating cinders out of her rough spun skirt.

"Lord Clegane?" Sansa asked, her eyes suddenly very wide. She'd not heard of the Mountain's death and instantly assumed that it was he that she was betrothed so unwillingly to.

"Aye, girl. He's an unkind one. Don't go thinking that you'll have a good life as long as your here." She said, her voice sounding sad and heavy. Sansa was shaking visibly, her arms wrapped around her chest. She began crying, tears falling from her eyes for the umpteenth time in the day. As soon as she tears fell there was a loud slamming on the other side of her bedroom door. Sansa stood trembling, too afraid to let out a sniffle. Heavy footsteps could be heard trailing down the hall, away from her.

"Oh Gods, please preserve me. Missy Pratter, please. I implore you. Please help me. He'll kill me." Sansa was breathing heavily, sounding as though she would hyperventilate. Her hands went to her waist, unable to get her breathe to come naturally. Her heart was beating hard in her chest.

"Shhhhh, shhhhh child. He's unkind but he ain't going to hurt you. Please." She went away from Sansa to the door to pull her trunks in. She opened the door and peered down the hallway, hoping that the Lord had disappeared. When he was certainly gone she began moving her things into the room, opening them to help her unpack. "You just sit and eat, child. You can take your hair down and begin dressing for sleep. I'll help you with everything."

Missy Pratter sounded so gentle that Sansa obeyed. She took her tray to the bed, setting it down daintily. She hadn't pulled the scarf off from around her head since she arrived-taking it off felt good. Her hair fell down her back in soft, red waves. She hadn't even undressed at all. She began removing her gloves and shoes and cloak, until she was wearing only her blue riding dress.

"My, my, child. What pretty hair you've got!" Missy Pratter admired, pulling from a trunk a length of white cloth. "Here is a blanket for you, child. You can wrap yourself up in it."

Sansa took it, shaking her head.

"No, this is a cloak. It was a- a gift."

"Oh, you are right. The Lord has many of those that I've washed for him." She said, absentmindedly.

"Why would Lord Clegane have a white-cloak?" Sansa asked, suddenly confused. "I thought that only Kingsguard members wore white cloaks."

"Aye, you're right little dear. The Lord was a white cloak until he was dismissed. The Gods can only imagine why. He came home with a broken heart and a mean temper, taking over the house since his brother died."

Sansa gasped, jumping up to take the cloak. Missy Pratter regarded her strangely for a moment, feeling hesitant.

"I just realized that I don't even know your name, child." Missy Pratter said, being careful with the words she spoke.

"Oh, I am so sorry. My name is Sansa Stark." She replied, reticent about admitting to her own last name.

"The traitor's daughter?" She asked, her voice suddenly very sharp. Sansa averted her eyes and nodded.

"I am loyal to my king and his will." She whispered, looking at the floor.

"Of course you are, child." Missy Pratter responded as more thunder shook the keep. The sound of a torrential downpour was slamming against the stone walls. She turned away and returned to unpacking Sansa's things. She was suddenly very worried about what his Lordship would think of having to marry a traitor's daughter and all. She'd heard all of the awful rumors that circulated around Westeros and suddenly felt very worried about having a Northerner in the Keep. She couldn't imagine that Lord Clegane would be happy about it, either. She was afraid for his temper-he would surely take this betrothal as an insult.

She finished unpacking Sansa and went to take the tray of half-eaten food away from her.

"The Lord says that you ain't to move about the Keep on your own. Don't worry, I'll come and sit with you daily." Missy said to Sansa, placing her hand once again on Sansa's face.

"I cannot thank you enough." Sansa replied. Missy Pratter turned away, and once again Sansa was alone in the room. Sansa went across the room and lifted the white cloak, wrapping herself in it. She was still frightened and the feeling of the heavy white fabric comforted her. She thought of the last time she'd seen himóhe stood before King Joffrey when she'd been dismissed from the court and replaced by Lady Tyrell. She remembered what had happened before that.

The night before Lord Stannis' invasion, Sandor Clegane had stolen into her room while the Red Keep tried to force itself into a nervous sleep. He'd offered to take her back to her home in the North, and out of fear she'd refused him. She sang for him at his behest, and he'd thrown his white cloak at her feet after he pinned her down and kissed her.

Her broken heart felt, somehow, even worse. She closed her eyes and put her head into her shivering fingers. She felt as though her hands had been filled with snow they were so cold. She laid on her bed and disappeared beneath The Hound's white cloak.

She tried to fall asleep, blowing out all but one candle. The meager fire in the fire pit had already petered out and she felt desperately chilled. The room frightened her terribly and she found herself suddenly very angry. The wolf that she was, somewhere deep inside, had awoken. She'd undressed to wearing her small clothes, night dress and slippers but couldn't get comfortable. In every shadow she detected a fiend. She pulled Sandor's white cloak around her and got out of bed, taking with her the lone candle and opening the bedroom door.


	3. Ghosts Unseen

3. Ghosts Unseen

The hound stood in his room, his ruin all about him. His home felt as loving as a crypt, as inviting as sharpened steel across the throat. A single candle burned and lit the room, as did the lightening that was rolling outside of the keep. His knuckles were bloodied from slamming them against the stone walls; his face was twisted into a grimace. A growl resonated in his throat. What life he had was now surely gone. The life he led before he was sent back to his home was regimented-the boiling rage that lived in him, like a mad dog, was given structured release. He was given carte blanche on human life, a daily task that was humiliating if not at least dependable. Defending a child that he would have sooner killed, and then silently loving a bird that he couldn't free. Being sent back to his old existence meant that he had to do for himself, and he soon found himself drinking his fill daily, launching himself into oblivion. Nothing mattered and there was no outlet here for the constant sea of hatred that was swelling throughout his being that had been building and boiling over for most of his life. He hadn't been able to kill his brother, some other man had taken that from him, and he hadn't been allowed to stay and guard the little bird against the lions. The poor little girl, the only thing that he could have possibly loved-thinking of her milk white skin and fire red hair sent him reeling, sent him to another wine skin, sent his fists against the wall-made the blood creep out from his knuckles, running down his fingertips and into his clenched hands.

0

Sansa stepped out into the darkness, her candle the only guide against the total black of the hall. She couldn't stay in that small room, it felt as though there were ghosts speaking in it. The air was as cold as ice. Being so long out of the North she had lost her thick skin, her comfort in knee-deep snow. Now the air with its chilling tendrils made her bones shake, her bottom lip quiver. She brought the cloak closer to her skin, covering her too-small night dress and bare neck. Her hair fell around her shoulders, long and as red as a robin's breast. The fabric of her sleeping clothes clung to her uncomfortably, tightening around her breast and her waist-loosening only at the hips. It felt more like a burial shroud than a garment.

Each footstep into the dark frightened her, made her heart race. The choice was staying in a room that made her feel deathly afraid, or look for the Hound and face his rage. She'd rather risk his anger than the darkness, the cold sad loneliness of the four walls that she was expected to stay within. Even though she was ravaged by a strange terror-some part of her was drawn into remembering him as a kind man, if not a terribly frightening one. He'd never harmed her. She'd never felt his fist across her face, and now that was all that mattered. She'd lost every other standard by which to live, and was left with only that-and the odd ways in which he would treat her. He was gentle with her, concerned for her life. And now that she understood that she was within his home, she wondered why he hadn't come for her, why he'd refused to see her, why he locked her up in a room and not been concerned with her. Perhaps she'd misread him, her hopes might have been wrongly invested. Perhaps he hated her and had seen her only as a stupid young girlóbut now she was being forced upon him and he upon her. Hiding in her room would do nothing to ease her fears or to make sleep come any easier. She had to muster her strength and progress through the darkness, somehow find where he was.

She came to the end of the hallway and a choice to make. There were two directions that she could choose between. She stood still and waited, hoping to hear something. If the hall could have spoken to her it would have told her of horrors not fit for a girls ears-the screaming of Gregor Clegane's bastard shortly before he ripped its throat out-tales of broken bones and pools of blood. She'd hear of the unspeakable yearning of dead souls to be returned to the life that was stolen from them, of the mad man that had terrorized this place while masquerading as a knight. Even as she stood still a spirit whispered from a room, another walked the hallways as undetected as the night air. She couldn't hear or see these, but felt an awful presence about her. A cold draft pricked Sansa's skin into goose bumps, the downy hair on her arms standing straight up. The soft resonance of heavy footsteps in the distance was the only thing she could actually hear. She strengthened her resolve and took the hallway to the left, listening for something else to indicate where he was.

Nothing but the resolve within her chest could console the fear that was throbbing in her chest. This awful place seemed as though it were enchanted by a dark curse, every inanimate board and stone seemed as though it were pierced through with some horror. Her footsteps fell across the floorboards as soft as feathers on the snow-she moved quickly and quietly, listening intently. A sudden violent rustling was closer than she had thought it would have been and it made her very still. Thunder clapped squarely over the keep, and she spied the faintest light underneath a door. As though possessed by some entity outside of herself, she gently and thoughtlessly lifted her hand and rapped against the heavy wood, whispering "Lord Clegane."

0

The thunder and lightning erupted overhead, amplified by the stone walls of Sandor's room. He was pacing up and down his room, the last of his wineskin emptied. He was trying to decide if he was drunk enough or if it was worth walking down to the cellar and getting more wine. Gone were the days of having to dress and arm himself before he left his roomóhis armor seemed stupid and useless now. He was reasoning that if he was able to ask himself if he were drunk enough that he wasn't. He heard a small tapping against his door that made him pause and a small voice on the other side of the door whispering his name. The interruption was enough to make him see red.


	4. Bleak and Burdensome

4. Bleak and Burdensome

Sansa's heart was beating wildly, a drum procession gone out of control. She lifted her hand to knock again, repeating his title and name louder this time. Her fingers were shaking as she did so. A slamming against the door was her reply, and she was so terrified and shocked that she dropped her candle to the floor where it petered out and went dead before she could recover it. The hall was swallowed in darkness, black at every angle. Her heart leaped up into her throat as she pulled the cloak around her as to shield herself from the bleak nothingness swirling about her.

"Lord Clegane!" She managed to cry out, again. Her determination was growing with her, even as her spirits were shrinking away. She didn't know why she thought it was intelligent to wander about the Keep looking for the loathsomely frightening Sandor Clegane-what part of her felt so tied to him? What stupidity made her think that he would buckle and fall onto his knees when he saw her? She'd been thinking her stupid fairy stories again, and had turned the beast into a prince.

What did it matter? It was too dark to turn away; her options were completely shot through. She backed away from the Hound's door and watched as the faint light that was radiating died away, darkening the hall completely. Lightening pulsed outside, silver streaks throbbing beneath the door. Thunder banged about, and heavy footsteps rushed towards the door.

0

She'd know his rage before she saw his face-whoever she was. He blew out the only light he'd allow himself and didn't hesitate. His rage was surging in tidal waves, a deluge of all of his hatred directed at the door-whatever wench was stupid enough to come looking for him in his quarters deserved to feel the brunt of all of it. She couldn't possibly be smart-the dumb girl should have ran as soon as she was brought to the keep. Disturbing him was enough to make his ire swell to uncontrollable proportions.

He took a few long, heavy and drunken steps towards the door and audibly growled.

"Leave me be!" He barked, at least giving her the chance to run.

"I-I cannot-I dropped my candle! Please help me!" The voice on the other side cried out. He knew he was too drunk-for a moment he thought that the voice sounded like her voice. This wench was taunting him-some sickening magic that turned his stomach. He threw the latch of the door free and pulled it open.

Another crack of thunder coursed through the halls-booming and echoing off of the walls, a deafening sound. He reached out into the darkness, grabbing the shadow figure from the hall, pulling her into his chamber.

0

The overly strong hands on her shoulders dug in deeply, and she cried out. A shock of pain ran through her, and a black terror rose into her stomach.

"Please!" She cried out, her eyes searching through the darkness to see him.

"Why have you come to disturb me? Seven fucking hells girl, you'll regret it!" He screamed, lurching towards her. His hulking figure bore down on her as he shoved her further into the room until her back hit his bed post.

Sansa had tears streaming down her face and she was shaking. It was confirmed, she'd been a fool to wander the halls alone. She braced herself, remembering the beatings she'd taken in King's Landing. She realized he'd never struck her because he'd never been ordered to. She drew the cloak around her and tried to ready herself for the back of his hand or a fist. What a fool-she'd nearly imagined him to be kindly.

"Please, Lord Clegane-please, I thought you'd want me to come to you-" She whispered, steadying herself against what she was sure was to come.

"Why the fuck would I have wanted that, wench?" He yelled angrily. She sobbed audibly, shivering in terror. "Who the fuck are you to come here? Who?"

"Your betrothed." Sansa murmured, confused. Who?

"What is your fucking name, girl?"

"Do you not know me?"

The Hound paused and drew in a breathe; his own hands were shaking hard against her shoulders clothed in his discarded cloak.

"Of course I don't know you, wench. You were sent to taunt me. Why were you sent to taunt me?" He spat out through gritted teeth. His rage had thickened into a disenchanted sadness-a desperation that would have broken his heart had it not already been ruined, like his face-his life, his anything and everything.

"You do know me." She whispered, as lightening illuminated the room-turning everything silver for a moment, everything but the black rage in his eyes. Everything was suddenly clear. "My name is Sansa. Sansa Stark."

0

Sandor's hands dropped from her shoulders as he tripped away from her, he suddenly was the one that was terrified. For a moment in the lightening he could see her clearly-every feature illuminated by the crystalline electricity of the storm. She looked as pale as a spirit.

"How could you be here? What has happened? How?" He cried out, more like a goaded animal than an angry beast.

"I was sent here, my lord-" Sansa whispered, her own fear melting away from her. She was relieved that nothing horrid was to come-she had nothing to shelter herself against now. The sound of rain was plinking hard against the windows, the wind howling outside of the keep.

He didn't respond. She couldn't see him, her eyes couldn't cut through the darkness.

"Sandor?" She whispered his name, barely audible. She repeated his name again. "Sandor Clegane, do you loathe me for being here?"

"Seven hells, she says my name. I must be seeing ghosts." He muttered to himself, backing away until his own frame was pressed against the wall. "What tragedy happened? I didn't save you-" He whispered, a low moan in the back on his throat.

"Sandor, please. I can't see you. Come back." She urged, wishing that she could will him to be nearer-the emptiness of the darkness was more horrible than his violence.

He took a cautious step towards her, followed by another and another. He took enough steps until the tips of his boots were touching the tips of her slippers. He knew he was drunk, but this was too much. How could this be? Without warning or suggestion her tiny palm was cupped against the ruined side of his face, her soft fingertips lightly touching his skin. His spine was suddenly caught, his stomach began to roll. A feeling of sickness ran through him. He'd not eaten for days and he'd been binge drinking-the weakness that was working its way through him was now completely apparent.

"Little bird-" He whispered, his throat tightening. Within mere seconds she'd managed to undo and decimate him, converting his strength and severity into a sad, lolling weakness.

"I'm scared." She whispered, realizing that the moment of peace that she felt was a mere illusion. There was a cold fear so deep in her it was painful to think on it.

"Please forgive me, Little Bird." He whispered in return, worrying about how he'd forcefully yanked her into his room. His hands had managed to touch her again-and had brought her a measure of pain. "I'll take you back to your room so that you can sleep." He offered, meagerly.

"No-please, no. I can't go back there. I can't. It is too awful and frightening." She shook her head adamantly, letting her tears fall as freely as a river runs. Salt water tears ran down her cheeks, enough to drown a mouse or a small bird. The storm was rolling as freely, the world seemed as though it were made of water and this keep was only a bobbing island on a sea of desolation. Her hand remained on his face, unmoving-they were toe to toe, her breast was heaving heavily, his breathe was coming in pained intervals. The cruel rain crashed against the windows, another roll of thunder sounded across the empty and flat moor.

"What do you want, Little Bird?" He whispered, so thoroughly mesmerized and totally lost to her. All of his hope had been dead and this resurrection felt violently sudden. It felt like a cruel joke, a dream or hallucination he'd break away from when the sun rose. He'd be alone and without any possibility when the storm broke, he was just sure of it.

"Let me stay with you."


	5. The Elements We Must Conquer

Chapter Five

When Sansa spoke the words, she must have given life to all of the violence of the elements; the storm picked up, a tremendous swelling of sound and movement that seemed to make the stones of the keep shake. It was as though the order of oppression in her life had been irrevocably changed and the earth was sounding her fury. The sound of rain blasting the windows immediately turned to hail smashing against the pane glass, the thunder increased and the winds low moaning turned into a cry. The dark was stunning—alive and unwelcoming; her only ally was The Hound. He stood so close to her that she could nearly hear his heart beating, could almost feel the blood as it coursed through his veins. So terrible and alive he seemed, so terrible everything was.

Her eyes could not focus, her mind couldn't cut through the dull sting of her strange state—half panic, half sublime calm bisected by the running of her mind and the wandering of her thoughts. They were changing sides like traitors, no emotion prevailing. For what felt like a generation her hand remained on his cheeks, and the storm swirled about them.

The Hound said nothing of her request, and she said not another word. They only stood, facing each other in the thick velvet black, unspeaking. The silence was overwhelming, if not horrible. It gave audience to the storm that raged, substance to the unearthly.

She was his in every sense of the word, marriage intention or not—whatever cruel trick the Gods had played notwithstanding, whatever strange fate that put her before him cast aside. Cut off from every avenue of recourse or help she was the embodiment of vulnerability, and yet was completely untouchable. He could do what he pleased with her; yet inversely he was as obedient as the dog he was, as loyal as any mutt to the hand which it longed to eat from. The effect that she had on him was that of serenity—she muted the rage that shot through him, causing him to feel nothing but a tremendous gentleness towards her. He took his hands and moved them through the darkness, finding the gentle curve of her hips and rested them gently upon them. He could feel her body react to his touch and was amazed and gratified that she didn't shrink away.

"Keep me here for the night." She whispered again, lingering on the feeling on his hands upon her. She was shaking, still trembling from the excess terror the keep gave her and the storm.

"Keep you?" He whispered in response, his voice a rasping whisper. Keep her? From what? His hands moved involuntarily, pulling her into him. The last time he'd seen her he'd stolen what he wanted from her—the taste of her lips against his, her body close. "Keep you from what, Little Bird?"

"From everything. The storm, the dark."

Sandor considered what she said—he could keep her from everything. The slightest thing which would swoop down to harm her he could do away with—his entire life could be based around _keeping her_. He turned the idea around in his mind, but could only concentrate on her lips. He'd break his back to keep those pressed against him. Keep her from the storm and the dark? She was a stupid little bird sometimes—a storm couldn't hurt her when she was indoors, and the dark was nothing to fear. He sighed audibly, thinking of her trembling at the storm and not his hands bearing down on her hips, pulling her into him. It made a shock of guilt course through him—he'd practically manhandled her a moment ago.

"Forgive me for hurting you." He rasped, lowering his face so that it would be close to her ear. She smelled like the outdoors, yet sweetness clung to her. She was like a flower growing in a swamp—she was made even more delightful.

"Of course…"

"I'll keep you here for the night." He agreed, dropping his hands from her hips and lifting his head up again. She was too much to bear. He tried to step away from her, but she caught him by the hand. Without thinking he pulled her towards him again, scooping her up and near his chest.

"Stay close, don't let me go." She asked of him, burrowing into him. She pressed her body onto his, as the hail battered the windows and the wind screamed its lonesome cry.

He didn't say anything, only pulled his arms around her. She'd lived with the entire world out for her destruction. He'd keep her from everything.

He thought on her walking through the dark halls towards him and it broke his heart. He wished that he would have known that it was the Little Bird that was being sent to him—he would have ridden out to get her, found her on her journey. He wouldn't have let her stay cooped up in that horrible room, wouldn't have thrown her things on the ground. He'd have made arrangements for her, given her something to come home to. Instead she was shivering in his arms, all too aware of the vicious world outside. He was too drunk to think clearly, and holding her made it worse. The thunder was splitting his head open; the wine was clogging his brain. His emotions were amplified. If he hadn't been beside himself and intoxicated he wouldn't have been able to take her into his arms. He was just disconnected enough from himself to do the stupidly impossible.

"You need sleep, Little Bird." He offered her, knowing that she must be exhausted. He could feel her nodding against him.

"You mustn't put me into bed and leave me there. I cannot be left alone in here—you have to stay beside me." She ordered him, her voice sounding oddly strong for a girl so fearful.

"You don't want to sleep with a dog in your bed."

"You aren't a dog, any more than I'm a wolf." She replied, sadly.

Lightening flashed across the sky, the world echoing its sentiments.


End file.
